01. Caldera Valhallis

Somewhere that wasn't a place, there was a universe of blue. Behind time, before space, and somehow fundamentally outside of everything, it stood as a testament to itself and its own eternal nature. This place we call Akasha.

Beyond its centre, outside its edge, in a space that takes the Heart of the Root of All Things simply because the conscious minds within it decided it must, a battle rages. Sparks, motes in a sea of transfinite blue flash, microscopic against the backdrop of eternity, but cataclysmic in their own right: Noble Phantasms, the weapons of Spirits of Old, Spirits of the Present Day, and Spirits that might Never Be. Heroes, one and all, they are venerated in tale and memory. Even in this songless age, they stand, transcendent, as perfect exemplars of the ideals of humankind.

But all is not well.

Noble Phantasms, after all, are not weapons to be used lightly; least so here, in the Throne of Heroes upon the Root of the World - for though death might never come to these perfected and immortal souls, there is a cost in action, severe and final - lifeblood might never flow, but the blood of their lore, the vitality of their myths? Aye, that is a dire currency indeed, and each drop is precious - for so long as they have a little, they might be remembered, but for that blood to run dry spells the Death of their legends in the Worlds that Are, and by that loss, the end of their immortal existences.

This is the cost of battle in Akasha.

It's an impossible cost, a terrible cost, a cost that none should be willing to pay, but in the eyes of some, the price is worth it, and so Noble Phantasms are used in anger, not to save, but to destroy, not to defend, but to attack, not for ideals, but for greed, and immortal blood falls upon the ground as the greatest legends of ten thousand years and nevermore, a million peoples and all humankind fight for the only prize that might have inspired anyone to such madness.

It is called the Holy Grail.

It is a Deus Machina.

One wish to the worthy is its promise; and the Kaleidoscope whispered unto them: "Anything is possible. So come forth! Do battle! Those with the greatest legends will be summoned! Those with the flimsiest existences will be ignored! Do as you might, Heroes, and grow in power even as you fall from grace; and we promise you: Your wishes shall be granted!"

And one and all, defined from naught, They strode forth and did battle.

And like a heartbeat, heroes began to be called forth. Six at a time, then, after countless aeons of perfect bloodshed and slaughter, seven - but ere long, the fight that began as a massacre became a battle, as some spirits became too irrelevant to continue on, and others, through strength, skill, or the simple superiority of their legends remained as vital and imperative as when it all began.

So did the Kings emerge, even as the pulse of summonings became anaemic.

Thus, did the battle become a war.

Ruling the centre, a man clad in a raiment of molten gold led an army, which was without heroic spirits, for he had seen them all and declared them unworthy. In their stead, his was an army of bronze soldiers, abominations of emptiness, without name, without history, neither Noble Phantasms nor outside the ken of his legend - one day, an alchemist would go on to use them to create the terracotta army of a certain emperor; but now, in their primordial state, they fought without reason, slaughtered without cause, and held their own against a tide of legends.

They were an army without a purpose, led by a king without a goal.

And they held against the storm.

From one side, an impossibly tall man in a crimson cloak grinned, and ravaged the Golden King's army with his own forces, an army of Heroic Spirits, whose legend was his as his legend was theirs, whose betrayal had cost him his dream and whose loyalty had led him to unimaginable victories. In an era where the world was a universe unto itself, they had conquered and dominated a portion of it that would be unequalled for long ages. Named a thousand times in a thousand tongues, this man, this King of Conquerors, fought against monstrosities from the Twilight of the Dawn Era, and though they held against him, his army had held against them in turn: a feat so impossible that, if nothing else, he had earnt the Golden King's respect.

Above the battlefield, Dragons flew, whirling like unfathomable ravens, those Divine Beasts, who bore their legends upon Gaia's banner opposed to Alaya's, had come to aid their sister, a human with the blood, heart, and soul of a dragon, who had burned her lands to save them, who died without a kingdom, whose people fought against her, and whose only wish was to save them from suffering. She rode upon the back of a crimson dragon, sword held behind her even as she menaced the armies of the other Kings from on high. To see her face would leave her nameless, but to know her legend, one need only listen to her cry,

"EXCALIBUR!"

And thus a calamity descended from the sky.

The battle did not end.

But all who fought it bled, and paid the price in the memory of their legends. The Golden king saluted she, that angel of death, and acknowledged her strength as worthy of his name: Thus he drew forth his blade, forged from the corpsemetal of a star -

But before he could give his answer to the blow, a second calamity answered in kind.

For, solitary, supported by no one, believed in by no one, his appearance remembered by no one, there was a fourth king, dressed in green and black, his face indistinct, his expression distant. With a book open in his hands, he tore the forces of base nature from the primordial ma and rendered them unto the King of Dragons as payment justly given for the attack so wonderfully received.

Four Kings, surrounded by countless heroes battled for their right to fight for the Holy Grail.

As they did, a man dressed in the cerements of a saint stepped aside of Nothing, not upon the battlefield but beneath it, for he had grasped a fundamental truth that had eluded the minds of those true heroes, used to honourable battle.

This was Akasha.

This was no place.

There was no ground.

There was no sky.

He could be wherever he wanted to be.

Thus, as heroes fought and killed each other, this man, who had no legend, who was not a true hero, who could lose nothing in this battlefield, but could gain everything by participating in it braced himself against the air, and drew forth twelve spears of impaling light, then twenty four, then forty eight, then on and again, 'till the skies of the Caldera were consumed by a bloody glow, purpling them in a cloak of alien twilight.

And above, the battle slowly ground to a halt, because this was something new.

And this was Akasha. And space itself was only an imposition, here, which is Everything.

The archer dressed in the colour of freshly spilled blood superimposed every spear upon itself, drew them against a bow as black as night, and with a titanic surge of prana that wasn't anything, he Broke them all.

And then, he loosed.

Thus was it, that a hero with no name, who wasn't a hero, who lacked a legend, or even a right to be here, within the Throne, struck the greatest and most devastating blow of the Endless War.

But, even though the blow was terrible, it was not the last, and as the souls of Heroes once again reconstituted themselves from their ashes, the man stepped aside of Nothing again, gone to the service of his master, because this was the truth: he was nameless. No human knew his face. Only a few knew his existence - and it was a bitter thing, unworthy of being called a legend.

But that didn't matter.

Because, near the end of his life, that man had traded his freedom for power, and in that moment, he ascended. And as the slow aeons of his service passed, he slowly grew in strength, one war at a time - and as he did, his master had occasionally given him some freedom to Decide.

Islands of clarity, upon an ocean of blood.

And this is the truth: In every world where Alaya exists, in every world where humans dream, in every world touched by the nature of the Original One, were you to take anyone off the streets and rip the knowledge of the greatest guardian and defender of humanity from their unconscious minds, a single answer would come from every throat.

EMIYA.

And in the eyes of Akasha, that was right enough to be upon the Throne, even if he was not truly of it.

Thus, there, in the Throne of Heroes, a man who had no name, who had no myth, who had achieved nothing worth remembering in his life, who had never gained the nature of "Hero" laid a blow of such terrible power upon all who fought there that he was incontestably worthy of being in their ranks. And as the battle slowly began anew, the Spirits of the Ages knew this: he would return.

02. Two Wise Kings

There were those who chose to wait before entering the battle; for it is true that desperation brings a terrible and limitless strength, but foresight is the domain of humankind. To wait, and strike at a moment of advantage is far better than to fight with your back to a corner.

Even the Kings, whose veins ran rich with the ichor of memory were lessened after Emiya's blow - and in that moment, another, who had until now held his hand at bay, chose to act; for he was a subtle king of subtle powers.

Few noticed when five stones came forth, and struck down a man in the garb of a Roman Legionaire. Fewer still that his weapon disappeared, and that he faded out of the battle. Such things had happened many times before.

Only one saw the man standing on the horizon raise his hand, holding a weapon over his head that should never have been his, taken by right of conquest and its own will. But when the terrible power of the Lancea Longini came forth? When the spear with the power to choose Kings, chose?

Aye.

That was noticed by a great many, and the great cry that rose from everywhere as an entire nation of Heroic Spirits, blood unspilled, strength unspent, came forth from the Throne beyond the Caldera - why, that was noticed by all. Even the Golden King condescended to give a nod of the smallest respect to such a masterful stroke, that had at once changed everything.

And it had changed everything: For these Heroes, blessed by the mantle of the Spear of Destiny had brought forth something with them - something greater than any Noble Phantasm, here in Akasha, the garden of ideas.

They brought angels. They brought demons. They brought great, celestial hosts, wheels of fire, sightless eyes that viewed the impiety in a man's heart, and taught it the meaning of guilt. They brought forth a man, whose name was power, whose nature was twofold and one.

And Akasha, the heart of all things that was all things...

began to change.

It wasn't a reality marble. It wasn't even something that could easily be put into human words or concepts. It was simply another of the many truths buried in the crush of all things being called to the forefront.

The quality of light was the first thing to change - shifting from piercing blue to a powerful, completely impossible shade of rich amber, the first sign of a coming of a place that was too extreme for the physical world, but was well suited to the thoughtless perfection of this, the centre of all things. Chorus came next, and it was sung in a single language, which was lost to this world: The Tongue of Babel, which is to humans as the world itself.

And the sky was covered in empyrean clouds, as pure light slammed against everything, the power of the White God being made manifest as the greatest and most terrible of the Divine Spirits manifested Himself upon Akasha's shores.

And the Word was Spoken, "Begin."

One and all, the Nation Chosen by God gave forth a mighty roar, and behind their Twice-Chosen King, they charged.

Behind them, the dreams and nightmares of a faith powered by the belief of over one billion people followed, and the Caldera Valhallis fell into an empyreal chaos, a war the likes of which hadn't been seen since the dawn of time itself.

Angels, welding swords of flame spoke truths so beautiful that the minds of heroes broke upon them; Demons, who knew every darkness lingering in the human heart played upon every weakness that still lingered in the heroes' "perfect" souls, and...

For the first time -

For the very first time, since the start of this timeless battle -

Even the Kings were laid low.

It was a perfect, apocalyptic strike, and it seemed as if, by the simple exertion of the virtue of temperance, the Twice-Chosen King and his nation had decided the battle.

But of course, foresight is the domain of humankind. And one last King, whose mind was as twisted and clever as the Crimson Archer's, had not only seen the value of waiting, but had understood the nature of the ground.

And so he stepped forth, in the centre of the battlefield, with neither an army to call his own, nor Noble Phantasms manifest to proclaim his nature. And not a single person noticed, as quietly, he began to chant..

Thus the combined might of Heaven and Hell were left behind, as a great and primal darkness covered the heavens, and in perfect, absolute silence,

an ocean fell from the sky.

An ancient divinity's wrath made manifest, not as simple truth, but as a Reality Marble upon the face of the Supreme Ultimate. A distortion, imposed on the face of truth itself.

Heroes and Kings alike were buried beneath its crushing onslaught, and of the hundred thousand heroes of old and ages yet to come, only the Golden King survived, having braved incalculably deeper waters in his own life.

The rest drowned, and upon the largest of twelve ships, a final king simply laughed, delighting in his triumph.

But this was a war that raged in the heart of Forever. And so even his brilliant victory wasn't to last.

For above the ocean that had denied the might of The One God, shining like a crimson star,

He came forth once more.

03. Apotheosis

Chaos. Crisis. Dissolution. Downfall.

A single, bass voice rung through the chaos of the battlefield. It said, "The centre cannot hold."

And in a moment, in a heartbeat, in a timeless span that lasted the ages of the universe even as it was briefer than the first instant of time, a Crimson King stepped aside of nothing, wearing a mantle of utterly alien supremacy - here, in the heart of all things! For in the span of endlessly delineated moments that had separated his going from his return, something had changed. Something in his countenance.

The first time he had come, he had come as a hero known by none, with an understanding of Akasha surpassing all. Now, he came as a ruler, from a realm foreign to Akasha's shores, with might that exceeded the sum of everything and nothing, that was above and beyond any possible conception, born of his life, and of the death of untold billions, a sword forged for but one purpose.

To destroy!

And there, above the Wandering King's ocean, Emiya stood firm on the boundary of nothing, reached beyond it, and drew madness forth from the abyss.

And it was a sword in the shape of Apotheosis. A sword that transcended all reason, all understanding. A sword, sheathed in the only thing that could contain it, an unknown entelechy stronger than the universe itself.

There, in the unknown heart of all existence, in the Caldera Valhallis that never was, he drew it. And in that moment, Akasha herself bled.

And then, for the first time in all eternity, she. took. interest.

This act alone sealed his Legend.

In that moment, the Uncrowned King, the Hero that Nobody Knew was formally recognized as a being transcendent of all bindings, a sovereign existence, a peerless being who had achieved the absolutely impossible - and he was not yet done, for in the space of a moment, he held that terrible blade above his head, and with two words, he Broke it.

Space screamed.

Time shattered.

And here, in the Cauldron of Valhalla, where the souls of legends lost fought for the chance to gain a wish, the crimson archer lashed out with a weapon that was a concept so alien that it was horrifying to all that viewed it. Those who were not erased from existence went mad; those who were mad, were shocked into sanity; and the few with the fortitude to withstand the horribly alien thing that the Servant had loosed upon part of the Heart of Existence looked upon him in revulsion, anger... and fear.

In the aftermath of his cataclysmic strike, which had torn at Akasha itself, he spoke.

"Know this. I am Emiya. I am the King of Blades. I have come forth to put a final end to this Cycle of Holy Grail Wars: For the Grail is tainted. It can grant no wish, save the destruction of the world. You - all of you, came here in the hope of having a wish granted. You regret. You despair. You left the world with a legend writ in Eternity, and it was not enough.

"This is the end. What comes beyond this moment is the last. If any of you still have the conviction that led you to become heroes in the first place, join me, and if anything is left of the grail after I am through with it, I swear, I will carry your wishes to it and see them done: For I alone am guaranteed to stand in that final battle."

And the opposing Kings stood unmoved. And a few - a very few of the Heroes moved behind him. Some were wary of him, this unknown interloper with horrifying strength, and they left. Most, though, simply had desires too powerful to subordinate themselves to anyone.

The King of Blades simply laughed - he had served Alaya long enough to know that this was the only possible outcome.

"So be it. Come then! Face your deaths with your meaningless pride! Be true to yourselves, and perish!"

And then, he spoke for the last time:

...I AM THE BONE OF MY SWORD...

So began the Terminal Grail War. Before the servants were even summoned, in a stage that none of them would even remember, Kings clashed in a war more terrible and yet less dire than the one that was to come; but here, they set the tone. The Caldera Valhallis: The stage from which the grail evaluates heroes, to insure not only compatibility with the master, but evenness of strength. The King of Blades, by his mere existence, disqualified every Heroic Spirit that was not a King, and every King who had not a legend that bordered myth itself.

here, in this time out of time, the death of the world was set into motion

and now it begins

Postchapter A/N:

Of critical importance: Expository bonus content (eg, Servant Stat Sheets, how Noble Phantasms and Attributes are Ranked, worldbuilding details et al) will not be posted with the story. This is because I believe that the "wordcount" of stories should be actually related to narrative content. If you want to read the extensive bonus materials, then you should go to my profile, and copy the link into your browser's address bar. If you want to avoid spoilers, make sure that the folder you click corresponds to the latest chapter that you have already read. For example, don't go into the folder called "E1PA" before reading Episode 1, Part A.

Of marginal importance: The transition to non-italic was deliberate, not a typesetting mistake. The rest of the story will be formatted along less overly-italicized lines. Arturia drowning in the ocean was likewise not an error - if you understand who the Wandering king is, and think about the Nauverse concepts of priority and originality, it makes sense.

Idea Credits - Spoiler alerts for, in order of credit given: Vinland Saga, Gunnerkrigg Court, The Epic of Gilgamesh & Fate/Zero

Caldera Valhallis - (The Heart of the Throne)

Inspired by the manga Vinland Saga, wherein a character has a dream of Valhalla, and it is not a place of glory, but a place of bloodshed, where dead warriors slaughter each other until the end of all things, killing, reviving - an existence that is nothing but a perfect bloodbath: what those men sought to create in life, they are given in death.

And it is hell.

Emiya's Sword

Is a sword. It is also, incidentally, the inspiration for this story. It was inspired by Coyote's Tooth from a webcomic called Gunnerkrigg Court, and shares two properties therewith (Same shade of red, ridiculously sharp). It is, however, far more terrible a thing than it's inspiration.

Gilgamesh Not Drowning

Gilgamesh walking to the bottom of the Persischer Gulf is not enough for a man worthy of the title of King of Heroes.

So, I decided to take Vimana into account. It's a Noble Phantasm he has which is superior to all modern aircraft. Thus, with Gilgamesh being able to plausibly travel the entire globe, the Root of Immortality that he walked the bottom of the ocean to obtain...

Is now located at Challenger Deep.

Gilgamesh literally walked to the bottom of the ocean to obtain it.